Footpaths (final) - from Footpaths

Theres somthing rich & joyful to the mindTo view through close & field those crooked shredsOf footpaths that most picturesqly windFrom town to town or some tree hidden shedsWhere lonely cottager lifes peace enjoysFar far from strife & all its troubled noiseThe pent up artizan by pleasure ledAlong their winding ways right glad employsHis sabbath leisure in the freshening airThe grass the trees the sunny sloping skyFrom his weeks prison gives delicious fareBut still he passes almost vacant byeThe many charms that poesy finds to pleaseAlong the little footpaths such as these

Now tracking fields where passenger appearsAs wading to his waist in crowding grainWhere ever as we pass the bending earsPat at our sides & gain their place againThen crooked stile with little steps that aidsThe climbing meets us—& the pleasant grass& hedgrows old with arbours ready madeFor weariness to rest in pleasant shadesSurround us & with extacy we passWild flowers & insect tribes that ever mateWith joy & dance from every step we takeIn numberless confusion—all employTheir little aims for peace & pleasures sake& every summers footpath leads to joy

No comments:

From Helpston in rural Northamptonshire, John Clare was born in 1793. He is now regarded as the most important poet of the natural world from Britain. He wrote many poems, essays, journals and letters about love, sex, corruption and politics, environmental and social change, poverty and folk life. Even in his madness, his talents were not diminished. Ronald Blythe, President of the John Clare Society, sees Clare as "... England's most articulate village voice".
Clare died, aged 71, in 1864.